


The Case of the Calf-skin Notebook

by Skud



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes - Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Control, Fingering, M/M, POV First Person, POV Third Person, casefile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-26
Updated: 2010-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-07 14:04:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skud/pseuds/Skud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and I had been living together on terms of the greatest intimacy for some months before I discovered a way to make him relinquish the remarkable control he held over himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Calf-skin Notebook

_Sherlock Holmes and I had been living together on terms of the greatest intimacy for some months before I discovered a way to make him relinquish the remarkable control he held over himself._

When I had first come to know him, it had seemed almost uncanny that he should be able to deduce, with such accuracy, the means by which to bring me most pleasure. His perceptive powers were always at his command, and even when I offered him pleasure in return, he maintained the same focus and watched me no less intently, as if taking notes. Although his breathing and heart-rate increased and his body exhibited the expected physiological response, he never made a sound or motion that he did not intend. A gruff "mmm" conveyed the message that I had found a sensitive spot; a shift of his body or a pointed nudge would direct me if I had not yet found it; but I never heard him utter an unbidden cry, or knew him to make an involuntary movement. When Holmes came he did so with no more than a strangled grunt and, more often than not, he was dressed and about his business before I had even managed to string two thoughts together.

I was a little ashamed at how long it had taken me to notice or be bothered by this, but once I had made the observation I could not let it go, and worried at it in quiet moments. I wondered whether it signified a lack of interest on Holmes's part or (more likely) a commitment to clear-headedness that impinged on even his most intimate activities...

* * *

It was quite by chance that Watson discovered the trick of shutting down Holmes's mind. Holmes was sprawled across the bed on his back, his head and shoulders propped on pillows, as Watson lay between his legs and sucked his cock. One of Holmes's hands was curled loosely in the hair at the nape of Watson's neck, guiding him, while his other hand cradled Watson's jaw. Watson had settled into a steady rhythm, his head bobbing up and down in a way that he might have found faintly ridiculous had he stopped to consider it, when his hand, stroking Holmes's leg, brushed across the fold between thigh and arse and caused Holmes to twitch involuntarily, his hips jerking up towards Watson's face and his fingers clenching in his hair.

He pulled his head up. "Ticklish?"

"No -- Yes."

"Which?" He touched him again, with similar results, to which were added a small gasp, cut off quickly, and -- even more fascinating -- two bright spots of colour rising on Holmes's cheeks. Holmes didn't answer, so Watson let his fingers brush gently across Holmes's anus, and this time Holmes failed to suppress his gasp at all.

Watson sat up with a grin. "Don't move," he said.

"Watson," came Holmes's querulous voice as Watson padded, barefoot, into the next room. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he said, returning with a small bottle of mineral oil, which he had found in his medical bag, hidden in the palm of his hand. "Lie back." He resumed his earlier position between Holmes's legs and returned to his previous business, running his tongue around the head of Holmes's prick and along the length of it. His hands, meanwhile, roamed Holmes's thighs and arse, this time with a firmer pressure that could not possibly bring on a ticklish reaction. He made sure to take Holmes's prick deeper into his mouth before allowing himself to press a fingertip to Holmes's opening.

"Ggghh -- Watson!"

He lifted his head, without letting up the soft pressure of his fingertip, and looked up at Holmes, who had risen to his elbows. "Yes?"

"Stop that."

"Really?" He pressed just a tiny bit more firmly, and all of a sudden the tension that had been in Holmes's body dissipated, he collapsed back on the pillows, and the tip of Watson's finger slipped into him. Holmes flung one arm over his eyes, but raised his knees as Watson pulled back, opened the bottle and let a trickle of oil run over his fingers, massaged him with it, and carefully slid inside again.

"Look at me," Watson said softly, and reached for Holmes's hand and drew it away from his eyes. Holmes blinked then turned his face towards him. His eyes were open but unfocused, looking past Watson, or through him, to nothing at all. Watson had never seen him this way before, free of all conscious thought, free, for a time at least, from the endless, relentless quest for knowledge. His countenance showed nothing but desire and, yes, surrender. A small thrill of satisfaction fluttered in his breast, but was overtaken by a much stronger surge of emotion, of tender thankfulness and awe that verged on prayer.

Still holding Holmes's hand, and never taking his gaze from his face, he began to move within him, stroking and sliding, oil-slick, unhurried, until Holmes was quite open to him, adding a second finger to the first, then pressing deeper to lightly nudge the gland he knew was -- there! Holmes let out something between a whimper and a yelp, and his hand gripped Watson's so hard he felt his knuckles crack. Watson almost pulled back, worried that he had gone too far, but Holmes's expression and the soft whimpering sounds that came from his throat conveyed nothing but desperate need, and so he pressed on, pushing deeper and murmuring incoherent encouragment until Holmes began to shudder, every limb quivering with tension, gripping Watson's hand more tightly than ever, and came.

Watson did not move, but stayed perfectly still, his fingers still deep inside Holmes's body, until a flicker of confusion crossed Holmes's face and he pulled his hand free and covered his eyes again. He disengaged, then, and set about the business of cleaning them both up, finding a towel and water and ministering to Holmes gently, while he lay in an attitude of exhaustion, his breathing returning slowly to normal.

At length, Watson threw the towel into a corner, extinguished the lights, and lay beside him. "Roll over," he said. "You're cold." With a little encouragement, Holmes turned onto his side, and Watson managed to disentangle the blankets from under him and pull them up to cover them both. He fell asleep curled against Holmes's back, one arm draped over him, holding him tightly.

* * *

_I awoke the next morning to the sound of Holmes clattering around in the sitting room. It was unusual for him to be up so early without reason; I wondered whether we had a new case, and quickly rose to see what he was up to._

I found him half hidden under his desk, rummaging around, with an assortment of items strewn around the floor behind him. There was coffee on the table, however, so I sat down and poured myself a cup.

"Do we have a new case?" I asked.

"No," came Holmes's muffled voice.

"What are you looking for?"

"Boots!" said Holmes, emerging at last with a battered pair in his hand. He tucked them under his arm. "I'm going out."

"Holmes --" I said, but he was already out the door. I rang for more coffee, and finished it in thoughtful silence.

I believe he was avoiding me for the rest of that day, coming in late after I had already retired, but things returned to normal soon enough -- if our relations could ever be called that. It was quite apparent that Holmes had no intention of mentioning what had happened between us, and although I had at first thought of saying something, I soon gave it up. I had feared, at first, that I might have overstepped a line, and that Holmes might attempt to forestall any further attempt at physical intimacy, but this turned out not to be the case. More often than ever I would turn around to find him reaching for me, and he was if anything more forthright in his attentions. I could not help but notice, however, that he kept an even tighter rein on himself than before.

It was, I will admit, infuriating to have been granted such a rare gift and then have it snatched away. It was even more infuriating to be forced to go along with Holmes's charade of normality, all the while wondering whether Holmes would eventually allow himself, once more, to accept the respite I could offer.

I was worrying over these thoughts one morning as I read the newspapers.

"Watson?"

I looked up. "Yes, old boy?" I replied, blandly.

"That is the third time I have said your name. If you're just going to sit there staring at that paper, you may as well let me have it."

"Of course," I said, and handed it over. He gave me an uncomfortable, inquisitive look, and I was glad when the sound of a caller at the front door prevented him from asking what had been on my mind.

Our caller was a Dr. Sutherland, of the Royal Society, a gentleman of about sixty years of age

with white side-whiskers and a black coat that had seen better days. He was quite distressed, sweating profusely and pacing about as he begged Holmes to help him. Taking the chair and the glass of brandy Holmes offered him, despite the early hour, Sutherland told us about a lost notebook, bound in calf-skin, which had been stolen from him, and a series of anonymous letters that threatened his ruin. I later learned that this Sutherland had written two monographs that Holmes particularly admired, and I suppose it was for this reason, in addition to whatever intellectual challenge the case offered, that he undertook to find the notebook and put a stop to the blackmail.

My work, unfortunately, prevented me from joining Holmes in this investigation. I had a patient in Bedford Square who required my utmost attention, and I spent several long visits there while Holmes puzzled over the letters. On the third day, I returned from making my calls to find the sitting room dark and Holmes sitting on the carpet with his arms curled around his drawn-up knees. He did not look up as I came in, so I turned on the gas-light, and set about laying more coal on the fire...

* * *

"Must you?" said Holmes, blinking at the light.

"Really, Holmes," replied Watson. "Is it the notebook case?" There was no reply, so he settled himself into his accustomed chair and counted to forty before saying, "Why don't you tell me what there is to know."

"There's nothing to tell. Sutherland is dead."

"Dead?" said Watson. "But surely --"

"He shot himself."

Watson was silent for a moment, then said, "Dreadfully sorry."

"I had hoped to recover the notebook before it could come to this," Holmes continued, then shrugged. "Would you be so good as to pass me that morocco case?"

"I will not," replied Watson. The slender case to which he referred held his syringe. Watson had seen him use it often enough, but could not approve of it. Whether it was filled with morphine or cocaine -- he suspected morphine would be Holmes's choice on this occasion -- it could provide only a passing, artificial pleasure, at no little cost to Holmes's health.

Holmes shrugged again, and pulled himself up off the floor to get it himself, but Watson stood and reached for it first and held it behind his back.

"Give it to me," said Holmes, and lunged at him, but Watson stepped aside, and while Holmes was still off balance, he pulled back his fist and punched Holmes in the face, making him stagger. Holmes shook his head and raised his hand to his mouth, wiping his thumb across the blood that oozed from his lip, then licking it. He was breathing hard.

Watson's hand throbbed. He was surprised at himself, but he felt a certain exhilaration, too, as if glad to be taking action at last. "For God's sake," he said, slammed the morocco case down, then stepped forward and took Holmes's face in his hands and kissed him, furiously. Holmes just stood there. Watson could taste Holmes's blood on his own lips. He grabbed at Holmes's shirt, wanting to shake him, but instead kissed him again, this time more thoroughly. "Why don't you -- why won't you let me help you?"

"My dear fellow, I have always valued your assistance," said Holmes, deliberately missing the point.

"You know what I mean." He pressed himself against Holmes, still holding on to handfuls of shirt. He could feel the heat of Holmes's body and the tension in his shoulders. "Let me --" he spoke from half an inch away from Holmes's face -- "Let me distract you."

Holmes stared at him, searchingly, for a long moment and then closed his eyes. When he opened them again his shoulders had relaxed a notch, and Watson knew his answer before he gave it.

"Yes."

"Bedroom," he said to Holmes, "Undress. I'll join you in a moment."

Holmes narrowed his eyes and seemed about to offer some sharp reply, but Watson straightened his back and did his best to display what confidence he had. It must have worked. Holmes's lips twitched into a faint smile -- the first Watson had seen on him since coming home -- and said, "A domineering nature rather becomes you, Watson," before sauntering into his bedroom.

Watson watched him go, then took three deep breaths before setting about his own preparations. The oil, of course -- in his bag as usual. Warm water, for afterwards; he ran downstairs for it himself, and left the can by the fire. A clean washcloth and towel from his own room. He made sure the door was locked, stripped down to his shirtsleeves and rolled them up to his elbows, threw the towel over his shoulder, looked around the sitting room one more time, and went to join Holmes.

Holmes was sitting on the edge of his bed, naked, as Watson had instructed him. He wore a crease of worried concentration in the middle of his forehead and and looked up at Watson's arrival.

"Don't say a word," said Watson before Holmes could speak. "Lie on your stomach." Holmes did so with only a momentary hesitation. Good, thought Watson, perhaps this would be easy after all. He reached out and put his hand on the small of Holmes's back, meaning to simply accustom him to his touch for a moment, but he felt the stiffness of Holmes's muscles under the skin, and realised it wouldn't be so easy after all. Holmes was tense, and he could hardly do what he had set out to do if Holmes was taut as a bowstring. With a sigh, he ran his hand up Holmes's back to his shoulder, squeezed it reassuringly, then set to massaging out some of the knots he found there.

Gradually, he felt Holmes's muscles loosen and his breathing slow. Only a little, but a little was better than nothing. He ran his hand down Holmes's spine, and when he reached the base of it, he laid his palm flat against Holmes skin and smoothed it down over his arse. Holmes's breath hitched. He did it again, this time with a lighter touch and was rewarded with, yes, a shiver. In the spirit of scientific inquiry -- he thought Holmes would approve of his motives -- he let his fingertips trail down further, taking a thorough survey of the territory, noting Holmes's responses at each point, and paying special attention to those areas which elicited a squirm or a soft, muffled moan.

He couldn't see Holmes's face, but when Holmes lifted his hips towards Watson's touch, bringing himself up off the bed to encourage him, Watson took it as a sign and quickly reached for a pillow to put underneath him before directing his attentions more... specifically.

"Is this alright?" he asked, as he pressed against Holmes's entrance. Holmes gave no answer but a faint whimper, so he asked again, more firmly, and Holmes nodded, a quick jerk of the head, eyes shut; Watson wondered whether Holmes was still obeying his earlier direction not to speak, or whether he was simply unwilling or unable to do so. He decided it didn't matter.

Holmes opened to him, hot slick tightness and wordless, mindless surrender, and pushed back against him, rising to his knees and elbows, panting and then keening as Watson tried a variety of techniques, and then found one, a twisting penetration that plunged his fingers root-deep into Holmes's arse with every stroke. It was fascinating, really, to see the way Holmes arched his back, pressed back against him, the muscles of his thighs and shoulders standing out with the effort, his prick bobbing red-tipped underneath him. He lost himself in concentration, and did not know how long it was before he realised that Holmes's wordless sounds had become a chant of "Watson, Watson, Watson."

He blinked and paused. Holmes shuddered and pressed back against him, trying to capture the motion again. "Holmes?" he asked. "Are you -- do you need me to stop?"

"No!" gasped Holmes, and thank God, thought Watson, because he really didn't want to. "Fuck me." Holmes pushed back again, with a deep-throated growl, and Watson found himself saying "Yes, yes, I just have to --" and pulling his hand free, and good God, what had he been thinking not to undress in the first place -- he quickly discarded shirt, trousers, shoes, everything and was back on the bed, scrabbling for the bottle of oil, anointing himself, then oh God pushing himself into Holmes, feeling Holmes open to him, and all rational thought left him, and there was nothing but the hot tight _depth_ of Holmes's arse and his hand on Holmes's prick and the incoherent cries coming from both their throats.

* * *

_I have not written about all of Holmes's cases -- far from it, in fact. Amongst those which remain unpublished are some which were never solved, some which were of too delicate a nature to bring before the public eye, and some which might have toppled governments. In the case of Dr. Sutherland's calf-skin notebook, I have refrained from publishing my account partly out of sympathy for Holmes's failure, and partly because my own memories of the circumstances surrounding the case are of such a private nature._

Holmes had, in fact, solved the case. With his usual perspicacity, he had identified the blackmailer, retrieved the notebook, and was intending to return it to Sutherland in person. When he arrived at Sutherland's lodgings, however, he found the man dead, and the body being carried from the house under a blanket. Pausing only to ask a servant what had occurred, he returned to Baker Street, where I later found him.

Holmes kept the notebook. I have seen it among the bundles of papers which he peruses from time to time. My own calf-skin notebook, in which I document those cases not fit for publication, alongside more personal recollections of our time together, I keep in my own room -- and write only in code.


End file.
